


Ace of Swords

by JoansGlove



Series: Smoke Gets In Your Eyes [7]
Category: Wentworth (TV)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-30
Updated: 2021-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-16 14:28:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29083896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JoansGlove/pseuds/JoansGlove
Summary: Joan may have been dealt the death card but with the next draw comes her chance of salvation.
Relationships: Joan Ferguson/Brenda Murphy
Series: Smoke Gets In Your Eyes [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1976404
Comments: 22
Kudos: 25





	1. Chapter 1

The air was thick, stale with disuse. She moved through it with purpose, stirring up dust in the slanting sunlit bars patterning the wooden floors, making it dance with the lingering ghost of old perfume as the hollow sound of her footsteps drowned in the empty corners of the inert rooms. It wasn’t a homely space, the décor and furnishings strung together in that open plan minimalist scandi style – which made the personal objects displayed on the sideboard seem all the more incongruous, yet intriguing. The slim set of keys clinked gently in her pocket as she climbed the stairs. She’d been carrying them around for months – having taken possession shortly after her ‘resignation’ (the word still makes her lip curl) – and now she’d finally been asked to put them to use. As instructed, she headed straight for the master bedroom and its walk-in wardrobe, the sound of her sturdy boots muffled by the surprisingly colourful runner that stretched around the landing and the thick Persian carpet that brought a warmth to the sparse white room at the end of the hallway. But despite her invitation she felt very much the intruder in this silent house, and she breathed deeply trying to shift the thready scrape of nerves that fluttered high in her chest.

Running her eyes over the tidy racks, an amused (but unsurprised) smile flickered on her lips. Ordered by garment type, colour and hue, the arrangement said a lot about the woman who owned this collection of expensive cloth. Opening the cupboard, she was greeted by an intoxicating scent – rich and faintly bitter in the back of her nose – and her gaze ranged across the array of highly polished leather – shoes, boots, bags and belts and, laid out on a shelf of their own, gloves. Of course, the suitcase she was looking for was on the very top shelf – no problem for its rightful owner but a pain in the neck for someone of her stature – and she pulled a face. Out in the bedroom she found a wire wastebin and carted it back to the cupboard.

Now the case was down she wasted no time in filling it. The air vent grille came away with no trouble and she grabbed the small, flat safe that was her main reason for being here. As directed she also removed the plastic wallet from inside the smart cardboard box, thinking it strange that something so ordinary should get a fancy box all of its own as she placed it alongside the safe. Now for some clothes, and she worked her way through the sea of monochrome, reaching for anything coloured just to break up the monotony but her industry stopped as the regal gleam of gold against charcoal speared her attention, and she chewed at her lipstick. It was Joan's Governor uniform. She touched the rank bar and tried to imagine how she’d feel if she were in Joan's position and someone presented her with a memory of what she once was, a reminder of how much she’d lost. Joan loved that uniform but she’d never be able to go back to the job after this. Brenda pursed her lips in regret and turned away, selecting instead a winter coat from the opposite rail. 

Into the main bedroom now, grabbing handfuls from each of the underwear drawers but not before she had a wry chuckle at the military precision – everything neatly folded and arranged by colour again – wondering if Joan ironed her socks too. Her PJs were similarly crisp and ordered. On a whim, she chucked in Joan's small jewellery box and a bottle of her perfume and went in search of toiletries in the en-suite.

Joan’s robe lay across the foot of her snowy bed like a metallic scar, and Brenda lifted the heavy grey silk to her face and inhaled. Joan's scent, faded yet unadulterated by the stink of Wentworth, made her feel suddenly emotional and she sagged a little. God, how she missed her. She really hoped that all of this wasn’t going to go for nothing, that Joan's confidence wasn’t misplaced – but only time would tell – and a sigh escaped her as she let the robe puddle into the case. Even though speed was of the essence she couldn’t help a quick stickybeak in the bedside drawers. Hair bands, hand cream, a phone charger. The Well of Loneliness in one, a sleek black vibrator, heavy in its silk bag in the other. She found a stuffed toy, too; floppy and threadbare shiny with age, it had all the signs of being a roo in some previous life but now it was missing an ear and at some point, somebody had performed a careful amputation of the end of its poor tail. Weighing these two very different sides of the same woman in her hands, Brenda decided that they’d both put a smile on her face and tucked them carefully between the haphazard layers of clothing before hustling out onto the landing and into the airless study in search of the key that went with the safe. There it was, nestling in its own pocket sewn into the rug binding, and Brenda shook her head in wonder at what could be in the box to require this level of security. Mind you, she reasoned with a snort and a shake of her head, it was Joan, so she could pretty much have anything in there from a pistol to the secret of cold fusion.

Back into Joan's room again, tidying up, rearranging clothes to make the gaps less noticeable, making it look like she’d never been there. This would be the first place the police checked, she knew, and if it looked as if Joan had just breezed in and packed a bag then they’d find her car on nearby CCTV and it’d be over before it even started. The case nearly towed her down the stairs and she was glowing with exertion as she set it on its wheels at the bottom – no, scratch that, she was sweating like a bush pig. Maybe she should have taken her jacket off before she started, she thought and pushed her hair off her face with a loud _oof,_ too late to worry about it now though. Tugging at her collar, she guided the case out through the garage, back past Joan's sleek black car to her own parked discreetly around the corner.


	2. Chapter 2

Sitting behind the wheel, Brenda had to take a moment just to gather her wits. Joan's overcoat lay neatly folded on the passenger seat and her fingers brushed the dense wool as she wondered what the ever-loving fuck she was getting herself into. It all seemed so farfetched that she hardly recognised herself as the woman planning to harbour an escaped criminal, but she had no doubts about why she was doing it.

It was Joan's rule never to contact her before 10pm, and it was almost unheard of for her to actually call, so when the burner had started to vibrate in her pocket she’d paled with worry: something must be badly wrong. “It’s me,” Joan had said hoarsely before Brenda could even open her mouth. “Listen carefully –” And Brenda had. “The consignment will be collected at five,” Joan concluded. “You need to be here to follow the truck.”  
Stunned, she’d seen only the negatives. “Joan, I’m at work! And what if someone sees my car? Can’t you get a cab to mine and I’ll nip back with the key?”  
Joan had swallowed thickly before she’d replied. “No, I’d rather not.” The brisk tone had left her voice, replaced by something far more careworn, and Brenda had felt her heart give a little lurch. “I, I’m not feeling too good at the minute. And I’ve no street clothes either. I’m bound to be remembered, if not recorded by the dashcam. I need your help Brenda. I’m counting on you.”  
The DPP was still pushing for murder but even if they dropped it to manslaughter, they both knew that Joan wouldn’t be acquitted this time and they both knew that she would probably die inside before she made parole. The long and short of it was that Joan needed her and, no matter the danger, she couldn’t refuse her this request – so, she’d given the excuse of a migraine, and raced across the city to Joan's place. 

She prickled with uneasy excitement as she picked up the familiar route to the prison but it was tempered with an angry sadness at her lost job. Fucking Bennett! All of this was down to her. A dark sneer curled her lip as she thought about how the Board would spit-roast Vera over a double escape, and by murderers no less, and she took great comfort in knowing that she would have a part to play in that well-deserved misfortune.  
The burner beeped as she was approaching the turn-off. The truck’s here. Jesus, she was going to miss it!

She made it but it was ten past five – cutting it fine, Murphy! But there was no way the truckie could get loaded up and out again in ten minutes so she was alright, she told herself, everything was alright. Spreading her hands out in front of her, she took a deep breath and let it out through pursed lips, pushing down her nerves as she scanned the service gate. And, although the last one still lay rank on her tongue, it didn’t stop her from wanting another cigarette but she stopped herself from reaching for the packet, it would only draw attention to anybody watching. So, she sat there in the shadows, chewing on her lip, trying to ignore the creeping feeling that this was all a set-up, an elaborate hoax designed to give Mighty Mouse a solid reason for permanently segregating Joan from the women. But lo and behold, there was the truck pulling out of the gates – no sirens, no fuss – and she thrilled with the knowledge that Joan was on it and that they would be together again before the night was out.

She wasn’t the only one waiting for this truck though. A rented ute swung in behind it as it trundled away from the prison and anxiety flared as she checked up and down the street for anyone else that might be following, but there was nothing and, puffing out her cheeks, she started the engine and headed after the convoy. Must belong to one of Doyle’s mates she thought as she followed them towards the city and, released from the immediate grip of worry, she let her imagination wander, thinking about how her reunion with Joan would play out – but oddly, although sex featured, the overriding image in her mind was of them just holding each other, of her losing herself in Joan's embrace as everything else was blotted out.

Up ahead, the truck turned into an industrial estate and she slowed down as it rolled into the yard of some logistics company, keeping an eye on the ute as she pulled up and watched through the fencing as the driver and his mate climbed out and opened the curtain sides ready for the night shift. As soon as the yard was empty the ute rolled in and a big guy in a hoody got out and lugged one of the boxes onto the flatbed. Doyle must have arranged doorstep service to Westfall’s, she thought acidly and pulled the car up to the gate as the ute disappeared down the street. But as his tail lights flared at the stop light, she saw Doyle scrambling out of one of the other boxes and ice bloomed in Brenda’s veins, fear hollowing her out as her mind tried to process what this meant. It was Joan in the ute! Fuck! Who the hell was this guy and where was he taking her? 

With a dry mouth and pounding heart she followed. She thought that they were headed back to the prison and she had a sick vision of Joan climbing out of the box thinking she’d made it only to find herself face to face with Vera, and she was suddenly full of rash thoughts of cutting in front of the ute and rescuing Joan like in some action movie, but to her relief they zipped past the exit and, after a few Ks, dropped off the highway and headed south towards the country. Jesus, if they went any further out she’d have to cut her lights or he’d know she was following – not like they had a rush hour she could hide in out here. They were in the middle of nowhere when the ute turned down a track, and she slowed, cruising past the junction before chucking a U-ey and killing the lights. Piles of cut brush sat like beacons along the dirt track, and loose stones flew up from her tyres as she crawled along after the 4x4. When it stopped so did she, pulling in behind a heap of wood as she watched the driver get out and shift armfuls of branches away from a pile of dirt. She felt sick to her stomach and gagged on her tears as she watched him bury Joan's box but she didn’t fancy her chances of trying to stop him, not when he had a shovel in his hands – if he was prepared to bury someone alive then what was another body? After all, the grave was already dug.


	3. Chapter 3

In the pressing dark, dirt filled her mouth, the rough planks above her bowing as more and more rained down on her coffin. There’d been no mention of this second (very cold and draughty) journey but she’d assumed it must have had a purpose, and had endured being thrown about as her box was manhandled off the truck. She could never have imagined this turn of events though. How dare they? How _dare_ they!!?

Time passed. She was going to die in here and nothing anybody did was going to change that! She’d cheated death this morning but now it had come to collect what it was owed. Nails split and knuckles bled as she attacked the lid, only to find herself unequal to the task, a frantic scream starting to rise from the depths of her soul, and she let it have free rein as all of her pent-up emotion spewed out in an ugly, pleading torrent. 

Car care equipment showered the back seat as Brenda emptied out the plastic crate and she began to scoop loose earth from the mound like a woman possessed. Sweat coated her in a sticky film but she kept her coat fastened and her gloves on against the mud and dust as she dumped basket after basket of dirt over the side of the grave cut. “Joan!” she shouted. “Joan, can you hear me? Joan!” How could anybody do this to another person? Bury them, suffocate them like this? Was it supposed to give Joan time to repent for her so-called crimes? Probably, she thought bitterly, otherwise she’d have been in the river by now. Shit, only half a metre down and still there seemed no end to it. Whoever buried Joan meant her to stay buried forever. She had to give up smoking – her lungs seared as she fought to shift the endless soil, calling to Joan all the time, telling her it was going to be alright.

Joan felt faint, winded, as if something vital had just left her body. And then, in the silence, she heard the voice – her voice. And, in the utter darkness she saw the face – her face. Not hers. The Governor’s…

 _You fool,”_ she berated. _“This was Novak’s plan all along! She and Stewart have conspired to bury you alive – and you let them! Although I doubt that it’s Stewart up there shovelling on the dirt. No wonder Novak was so insistent you take her place. And you were only too glad to accept, weren’t you, hm? You coward,_ she accused _. Running away from those mindless cretins, you’re better than that. But it appears that all you’ve done is swap one death sentence for another. So, what are you going to do about it? How are you going to get out? I’m not dying in here because of your stupidity._

The Governor hung over her like a pall, dark and malevolent, demanding, ruthless. But Joan wasn’t the same woman that had entered Sinclair, nor was she same woman that had left it either, and she felt a strength in herself that had long been missing. “Shut up!” she hissed into its ghoulish face. “I listened to you last time and look what happened!”

_Yes, you listened to me and you were released._

“No, I wasn’t! You caused Smith to die.” A coal of hatred flickered in her heart. “You put me back inside.”

_She had to die._

“Maybe, but not like that! I might be free but for you. It’s you they all want to kill – not me!”

 _I am your Governor! I’m the only one that can make the tough decisions, the one that has to maintain the order._ I _, and only_ I _know what is best for you._

“You treat me like a prisoner!”

 _Because you need me to. Without me you had no direction. I give you purpose!_ Her black eyes gleamed with an inner light and Joan saw her distasteful history played out in their soulless depths. But no, it wasn’t her history, it wasn’t her that had lived that life... She’d been hostage to this impersonation of herself for far too long. If she got out of here it wouldn’t be as host to that… that monster – no, it would be as herself.

“NO!” she growled. “I’m not going to let you take over again. Not this time!” and she punched the roof of the box, smashing her fist into The Governor’s disgusted face, and then she heard it. Faint, but definitely there, she heard her name called. She hardly dared to believe it but there it was again. She called for Brenda and elation washed through her as she was answered. “Brenda” she cried hoarsely. “Oh, thank god, Brenda. Hurry!”

Soil filled Brenda’s shoes as she jumped into the pit and worked doggedly, muscles burning, lungs tearing as she emptied the not so shallow grave. God knew how much air Joan had left and panic cut through her like a knife as the gaps between Joan's shouts grew longer, her voice fainter, and then they stopped. She had no spare energy for tears as she bailed out the earth, and chanted the frantic litany: “Stay with me, Joan! Come on, stay with me, we’re nearly there!” She couldn’t lose her! Not like this, not when she was so close – she just couldn’t!

The lid of the box had bowed further and creaked alarmingly as another shower of dirt rained down on her. But even as her salvation grew ever closer, a deep dread bloomed in her core and the box seemed to shrink around her, stealing her air, making her struggle as it sapped her hope. Brenda's shouts faded as the darkness swaddled her and she knew she wasn’t going make it! She knew she wasn’t! This was a cruel trick of Fate’s – to be crushed to death on the very brink of freedom. Maybe it was payment for being the instrument of so much misery, or for being so weak and useless, but she didn’t want to die, she didn’t _deserve_ to die – not like this – and she began to fight back, finding the anchor of Brenda's voice in the roaring storm of white noise, clinging to it, using it to pull herself free of the cloying grip of baseless fear, but the sense of despair refused to relinquish its grip and she felt her eyelids flutter shut against her will. 

She thought that she’d never get there and that first solid, scraping thunk of the crate on wood brought her to tears, the sheer relief of having done it spurring her on until most of the pale wood was revealed, and she dropped to her knees, pressing her forehead to the narrow gap and slapping the planks, calling Joan's name, pleading for her to answer.

As if in a dream, Joan felt the glancing caress of fresh air on her brow, its cool touch slowly waking her as she found Brenda’s voice and climbed the ladder of her words toward consciousness. “Brenda…” she croaked and pushed weakly on the lid.

“Oh, Joan! Oh thank god!” she sobbed. “I’m gonna get you out of there, just you hold on.” There was no way on this earth they were going to get that lid off with their bare hands but Brenda knew she had just the tool. She felt the crate splinter as she boosted herself out of the grave cut, muscles quivering like jelly as she stumbled to her feet and ran to the car. Sometimes having an old banger paid off, she thought as she dug out the L-shaped tyre iron and fingered the tapered end.

Back in the hole again she jammed the lever under the lid and heaved, loosening a plank with strength she didn’t know she had. Between them they forced it open and then there was Joan's ghostly face, smeared with dirt and sweat and tears, and crumpling as she stared up at her. She found Joan's hand and gripped it tightly, kissing her raw knuckles, not ever wanting to let go.

*****

She knew shock when she saw it and Joan was fast in its grip. She’d submitted limply to her bear hug and, like a sleepwalker, had had to be guided to the car where she’d sat, nursing a bottle of water and shaking in the depths of her overcoat as Brenda cleaned herself up. And, as she looked at Joan in the dim cabin light, a little piece of Brenda cracked at the absence in her bloodshot eyes. She looked so broken, dusty hanks of hair falling over her face as she hid behind her upturned collar; tears cut lines down her filthy cheeks and her poor hands were crusted with blood and dirt, and Brenda had a sudden vision of Joan sitting in the bath as she sponged her clean like a small child.

Maternal senses still sounding, she a found a cloth on the back seat and wet it, pressing it into Joan's limp fingers as she started the car and pointed it towards home. It had been a silent journey back, her rage-fuelled tirade against the bastard who’d tried to murder her cut short by Joan’s raising of a ruined hand and her look of pain. It hadn’t been a time for words, so she smoked in tense silence and Joan slowly wiped away the grave dirt.

Chaos. The word was barely adequate to describe what was going on inside but it was the best her leaden mind could come up with. She felt lost. Totally and utterly adrift. Emotions battered her, blurring together as they spun around her like the walls of a tornado – too dangerous to touch – and she retreated into the safety of blankness. The only thing she felt for sure was relief. Relief that Brenda had been there to dig her out but, shamefully, she didn’t have the words to thank her. It wasn’t that they weren’t there – because she could see clearly what she wanted to say and do to show her gratitude – it was just that it was all trapped behind an impenetrable wall. Everything else though, was gone, and if it was gone it couldn’t hurt her. Huddled in her overcoat she stared at the empty road, sinking further into her collar as they hit the lights of the suburbs.


	4. Chapter 4

Joan's eyes widened as they pulled up outside a dilapidated old mansion house, and she craned her neck to see up and down the street. “Where are we?” she demanded in alarm.

“My new place, remember? Couldn’t afford my old unit after I got the sack. Come on let’s get inside, I don’t know about you but I need a drink.”

Despite the chill there was an old woman wrapped in an afghan rug sitting by the steps in a plastic garden chair. She lifted her head at their footsteps. “Is that you, Brenda, dear?”

Joan tensed as they stopped in front of her but Brenda never missed a beat. “Hey Zara, how’s it going?”

“Oh, you know, can’t complain. And who’s that you’ve got with you?”

Brenda glanced at Joan. “A friend. She’ll be staying with me for a few days.”

Zara reached out and caught Joan's hand, knotty fingers trailing over her grubby palm. “And what do they call you then, lovey?” she asked gently.

“Uh, Kath” she stammered and stared into two opals set in faded blue enamel as the old woman pursed her lips.

“Maybe you are at that,” she murmured cryptically. “No matter,” and she pressed Joan's palm to a worn tarot pack sitting on the small table at her side. “Cut the cards,” she instructed, milky eyes roaming over Joan's face.

Joan looked in wonder to Brenda, who gave an encouraging jerk of her chin and mouthed ‘go on’, so she gripped the velvety edge of the pack and humoured the old woman. Death stared up at her as she twisted her wrist but Zara slid the top card from the remaining stack and stroked its coloured face. “Ace of Swords,” she said thoughtfully. “A card of new beginnings.”

“Was that wise?” asked Joan as they stood outside Brenda's door. “That Zara woman, I mean…”

“Relax, Joan, she’s almost blind. Anyway, it’s probably safer here than at the old flat. Most of my new neighbours have uh, a ‘colourful’ relationship with the law.”

Joan’s eyes travelled up and down Brenda's security guard uniform and Brenda grinned as she slid the key home. “Yeah, I know but look, it’s like I told them, I don’t find them nicking from my store and no-one gets hurt.” Joan raised an eyebrow. “What? They don’t fuck with me and I don’t fuck with them – and everybody’s happy, aren’t they?”

In the flat, her haunted eyes never left Brenda but she couldn’t let herself be touched, cringing away from attempts at comfort, preferring to sit alone (still huddled in her overcoat) at the dark windows as Brenda channelled her worry into bustling around the flat. She refused the offer of first shower and, inch by inch, she sagged, collapsing in upon herself like a tower block in a controlled explosion. Here, in the golden warmth of Brenda's flat she knew that she was safe, and she felt the shell of blankness crack as she breathed a sigh of relief, but the shards refused to fall from the surface of her mind, letting only the thinnest slivers of feeling glimmer fitfully as she turned Brenda's version of this evening’s events over and over. She’d initially thought the conspiracy limited between Smith and Vera but tonight had brought home just how far the roots had spread. Evidently Novak had picked up where Smith left off. And she’d lost her grip on Cunt-struck Stewart – oh, he might tell himself he got rid of her for Vera, but the truth would always be that he’d done it for himself, to save his own skin. But whilst he may want her dead, he’d never have the balls to do it himself. So that just left the grave digger unaccounted for; it would be a pretty little parcel if it turned out to be Jackson but he had too much conscience for something so cruel – no, it was more likely to be that Turkell friend of Stewart’s.

Christ, she ached like a bastard! Massaging the small of her back as hot water eased her sore shoulders, Brenda closed her eyes and thought about Joan. Lurking amongst the excitingly mundane ideas of what she should cook for them or how much wardrobe space she’d need to clear was the gnawing distress caused by Joan's withdrawal – but then again, she wondered, how _were_ you meant to react to attempted murder? The stark realisation that Joan had almost died tonight hit her like an electric shock, and tears worked their way along the line of her lashes, her face becoming ugly as she cried for what might have happened and what she would have lost. But Joan hadn’t died, she told herself sharply, she was out there in her lounge, as large as life and twice as beautiful. She just needed to give her time, that was all, a bit of TLC and then she’d come right again.

Joan was still sitting where she’d left her, and it took a couple of goes to get her attention. She managed a small smile from behind her cowl of hair as she stood but shied away as Brenda tried to take her coat from her. “I’ve put some of your stuff in the bathroom, Joan, and there’s plenty of hot water.” Her hands hovered between them, as if pulling against invisible strings and, with a look approaching regret, Joan stared silently down at them – almost as if her own hands were similarly restrained. “Take your time.”

“Thank you,” she said quietly, looking back up into Brenda's face. Another small smile flickered on her lips as she let herself be shown to the threshold and, finally, she relinquished the coat.

She moved as if in a dream, standing in the old enamel bath to remove her clothes, dirt drifting down as she carefully folded each item and laid it on the small chair. The two thousand or so dollars taped to her belly came away with a satisfying ripping burn and she bundled the cash together, mouth twitching in vague amusement as she imagined Mercado’s face when she found her stash plundered. Her shoes and socks came last, and she slowly grimaced at the grit beneath her bare feet as she reached out and turned on the water.

It felt so good to have a proper shower after all this time, good to be using decent products again, but their smell reminded her of her life before Sinclair and the thought dragged at the corners of her mouth. How had it come to this? Her ‘history’ came slithering back to her and she gave a cracked sob, she’d been a puppet for The Governor – hypnotised into quashing and denying all of her feelings – and for what? Because something wrong had happened to The Governor, she’d become unreliable – she’d let the worst of her out to kill and maim – and instead of fixing the situation she’d destroyed it, refusing to let go even as it all turned to shit. But The Governor hadn’t known how to deal with Brenda, and because of that Joan had been free to rediscover a strength in the connection she had with this intriguing woman; and although the feelings Brenda elicited scared her, the fear of _not_ feeling them chilled her more, and her tears lessened.

Standing in Brenda's damp footprints, she inspected her reflection in the mirror. She looked ghoulish: the whites of her eyes a lace of petechiae; the pouches beneath them dark and puffy; the abrasions on her neck livid and raw, stinging as she lifted her chin. She tilted her head left and right, pushing at her dull, sagging skin with ragged fingertips, examining the ugly welts with clinical detachment – they would take time to fade but at least she was rid of the filth of Wentworth, and she gave herself a shake, pulling herself together as she unwound the towel from her head and began to drag a comb through her hair.

When she emerged from the bathroom, she found Brenda heading into the kitchen with a bundle of dirty bed linen. “Here, give me those,” she said, reaching for the bale of teal in Joan’s hands. “I’ll recycle them on my way to work tomorrow.”

Joan hugged the uniform to her protectively. “No, don’t do that. They may come in useful.”

She didn’t see how – not that it mattered either way. “Alright, well give ‘em here anyway and I’ll stick ‘em in the wash.” Joan's robe gaped a little as she dumped the dusty sweats on top of the sheets and, naturally, Brenda's eyes were drawn to her chest. There were bruises on her breast bone. “What happened here?” she began in alarm, and then her eyes found the marks beneath Joan’s jaw. Lifting Joan's hair out of the way she exclaimed: “What the fuck happened to your neck?” It was an awful sight that stabbed right into her guts. Into her heart.

She pushed away Brenda's hand, turning her whole body from her “Leave it,” she said dully. “I’m alright.” She wasn’t ready to have this conversation, but she knew Brenda well enough to know it was going to happen regardless.

“I didn’t ask if you were alright. I asked what happened to your neck!” God, she could be infuriating at times! Joan pushed past her and into the kitchen, blinking as Brenda turned on the light. “Alright, so don’t tell me. I know what causes injuries like that. We both do...”

“Then why ask?” she sniped tensely.

“Because I bloody well care, that’s why, Joan!” she cried, flinging the washing in the corner and staring at her in disbelief. Joan refused to meet her eyes, and she raised her face to the ceiling in an attempt to calm herself but it was a struggle. “Who was it, and when did it happen?” she asked when she had control of her voice again.

Joan sat on one of the high stools and shook her head dismissively. “This morning,” she replied simply and began to pick at her broken nails. She was ashamed to admit that she’d been lynched by the whole of H-Block. As The Governor, that level of hatred would have buoyed her up – a sign that she was doing her job properly, but The Governor was gone and Joan was left to deal with her legacy. 

Brenda hated Joan's attitude – Joan should be angry and she wasn’t. She should be a flaming ball of seething hatred just as she was, but she was the exact opposite and her icy silence unnerved Brenda – it wasn’t healthy. She lit a cigarette and paced the strip of lino, shooting Joan dark looks filled with worry and concern and horror, and of irritation and relief. “So, what are those from?” She indicated Joan's chest with a flick of her cigarette. “Did someone punch you?” 

Joan watched the small stack of ash drift to the floor between them. “In a manner of speaking,” she said and turned her head to stare at the solitary lemon sitting in Brenda's fruit bowl, as if that was the end of the matter.

“Don’t play games, Joan, I’m not in the mood,” she warned. “What happened?”

“CPR.”

“ _CPR??_ ” She staggered back against the counter. Because the reality was, quite literally, staggering. 

“For some reason,” explained Joan, finally meeting Brenda's shocked stare, “Vera saved my life. The one and only time she’ll ever get to kiss me,” she muttered darkly.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With much thanks to Kryssikakes for her advice and assistance - cheers, Mate x

Brenda was quiet for a long time as she finished her cigarette and quickly lit another, gaze flicking between Joan and her own oblique reflection in the dark window glass as she filled the kitchen with smoke. Jesus Christ, she thought as she opened the window and took a deep breath of cold night air, what had Joan been through today? It was horrific enough to know that she’d come close to dying in that box, but to find out that it came hard on the heels of her actually having been brought back from the dead was truly mind-blowing… And here she was making it sound like nothing! She pushed her hair from her face, clasping her temple in her palm as she tried to marshal her thoughts. Looking at Joan's tired face she realised that she’d got it wrong – this wasn’t Joan being brave, this was like the ganging all over again. Joan had locked that away too – but that was when she wasn’t around to look after her, when it wasn’t safe to let go. Well, it wasn’t like that now, Joan didn’t have to be alone ever again. There was so much that they needed to talk about but, tonight, they only needed to focus on the now.

Joan flinched away from Brenda’s attempt to treat the raw abrasions around her neck but she didn’t draw back because of the pain, she drew back because of the warmth of Brenda’s touch and what that warmth meant. Faced with Brenda's proximity she felt a sick heat prickle across her scalp and the stiffness flee her spine and, as she tentatively submitted, she felt afraid to look into her eyes lest she collapse and dissolve into the sea of tears that threatened to breach her defences. As soon as she could, she broke free and made for the bedroom.

The smile from earlier tugged at the corner of her mouth at Brenda’s thoughtfulness – she’d laid out some of her night clothes on the bed – and tears pricked as she registered Rupert propped up against the pillows. He’d been with her through thick and thin. Sitting on the bed, she pressed his balding fuzz against her lips, remembering the time her mum had rescued him from the neighbour’s dog and performed emergency surgery as her five-year-old self had fretted and grizzled. 

“He looks like you’ve had him for a long time.” Brenda stood behind her in the doorway; her face soft with affection. “So, I thought you might like it if I brought him along.” Joan nodded, faintly embarrassed at her sentimentality but unwilling to put Rupert down. “Here, you’ll be wanting these too.” Brenda opened a drawer and handed Joan some nail clippers and an emery board. The sensation as their fingers brushed made Joan grip Rupert all the tighter and, at long last, she managed a proper smile of gratitude, which Brenda accepted with a tilt of her chin and tender twitch of her mouth.

*****

They sat in silence but there was nothing particularly comfortable about it. Brenda flicked irritably through the channels before settling on Miss Fisher – a bit of foxy Phryne was always welcome on a rough day – and she glanced over at Joan curled tensely in the oversized armchair. She’d refused any offer of food but had accepted a large brandy with a Milo chaser, and now she sat there staring blankly at the TV, obviously just grateful for the distraction. When the show finished, she got up for a smoke and her sore muscles went off, making her groan like an old woman as she hobbled over to the wide bay window (tossing the remote into Joan's lap on her way) and raised the heavy sash. The cold air made Joan shiver but, after so long inside, the novelty of seeing a window opened at will and the smell of the dark garden beyond was strangely comforting. Tears pricked at her eyes as she watched Brenda sitting on the low sill blowing smoke outside, she deserved so much more than a woman as hated as she was, and she had to look away.

Out of nowhere Brenda chuckled making Joan jump and turn to stare. “I’d love to see what state Vera's in right now,” she said with a malicious grin. “Bet Channing’s so far up her arse over the escape she can hardly walk.”

“Fortunately for Vera, Channing side-lined her shortly before I left. It’s his problem now.”

“You what? He demoted her?” She cackled in delight, slapping her thigh as she rocked in glee. “Fucken-A!” Joan allowed herself her own dark smile knowing that Vera had lost more than just her rank. “So, what happened for that wanker to step in?”

With a brief flick of her fingers Joan indicated her neck. “Do you mind if we don’t talk about it tonight?” she asked uncomfortably.

Brenda's face became solemn. “Yeah, of course, love,” she said softly, and Joan returned her gentle smile, feeling the muscles in her cheek flutter as she tried to keep back the tears.

She was grateful when Brenda brought her more brandy and Milo and, as their warming effect eventually began to creep into her bones, she let herself sink back into the impersonal embrace of her chair. Even though the flat wasn’t that big, Brenda's furniture seemed like it belonged in a doll’s house; the ceiling had to be close to four metres high and the original door and windows had been designed on a similar scale. It had obviously been one large room in the past before being divided up, and Joan’s eyes roved around the long lounge area as she imagined how the place would have looked in its heyday with her and Brenda sitting there in their Victorian finery. Part of her knew that this was just a ruse to keep her mind from thinking about today but she didn’t care. Yet her eyes kept returning to Brenda; heavy and bloodshot, glittering in the light from the TV screen as she slid glances across the room, and her lips trembled at the woman’s humanity and compassion, but also in guilt at her inability to accept Brenda’s attempts of comfort and understanding, or tolerate her natural anger. But, soon enough, any diversion became too much for her – she was bone-tired, everything leaden and crushed, each gritty blink getting longer and longer, her heavy lids fighting to open, rushing to close – and before too long she felt her head begin to nod.

The lump in Brenda's throat ached with the effort of holding her tears at bay, and she shot a look over to Joan. It was almost midnight – still the middle of the day for her, but not for Joan – the poor bitch could hardly keep her eyes open, bless her. “Go to bed, Joan,” she suggested. The silent woman complied with a drowsy nod, and Brenda reached out to catch her fingers for a second as she shuffled past on the way to the bedroom.

Now that she was released from Joan's scrutiny, Brenda was free to give in to the miserable flutter that scraped at her ribcage with every careful breath, and she almost ran to the bathroom, snatching up a towel and burying her face in it as sobs bent her double. All she wanted to do was to hold Joan and make her feel safe, but Joan seemed so brittle that the wave of pity and fear she felt for her came flooding out and she was helpless to stop it. But she cried for herself too. It was the not knowing that scared her the most – not knowing who strung Joan up, not knowing who buried her, not knowing how Joan would cope with those things – or how she would cope if Joan couldn’t. And she cried for the uncertainty of their future too. Was Joan going to stick around or would she disappear interstate, and if she did would she still want her along for the ride? There was nothing keeping her here, no family, no strong friendships, certainly not her job. She knew that if Joan asked her to, she’d go. She didn’t want to think about the alternative… She just wanted everything to be alright.

Brenda's touch still coated her fingers, and Joan held them to her lips as she closed the door and leant against it, screwing up her eyes against threatening tears. She was both raw and deadened – as if stuffed with wire wool, and she felt like an imposter as she crawled into the strange bed – as if she had no right to lie between these cold sheets. She pulled the duna tight, rolling to trap it around her body until she was swaddled like a newborn. Beneath the covers her arms slipped around her ribs and she hugged herself, drawing up her knees as she silently keened. She wanted to be held, wanted to be wrapped in Brenda’s arms and be comforted but that kind of connection seemed like too much to contemplate, too much to bear.


	6. Chapter 6

Her neck itched with an annoying persistence and Joan rubbed at it with frayed fingers, the prickly irritation shunting her into a disoriented wakefulness. In her unguarded exhaustion, the emotions of the last few nightmarish hours came pouring over the wall she’d thrown up around them. Expecting the worst, she tensed for the onslaught but discovered that, curiously, whilst she felt their teeth, they were hardly fatal – in fact most of them barely drew blood. And although she was still groggy, she found the fog around her mind thinning, letting her think.

It was mob rule that had seen her dangling from that rope, nothing unusual in a prison mêlée – but the hypocrisy of it all sparked her anger (her first proper emotion since the box – not that she realised). Those snivelling shits had accused her of no worse than they’d done themselves – less in fact. They just didn’t want to see their deeds reflected back at themselves, didn’t want to see how they really were – so it was easier to smash the mirror. They’d voted Proctor back in with all her pacifist’s paradise ideas, and within thirty seconds they’d defied her. And it had been a woman who wished her dead that had saved her life – oh, the fucking irony to owe her existence to Vera fucking Bennett of all people! It still eluded her why Vera had saved her – she’d seemed almost embarrassed at the suggestion she’d done it out of simple humanity. There was another part of her though, deeper down beneath her outrage, that understood that the person they’d tried out there in the yard had deserved it – but still, it was _her_ body that had been strung up.

Taking a laboured breath Joan realised that she was almost vibrating with anger and, forcing herself to breathe deeply, she worked on unlocking her muscles, blanking her mind until she lay like a corpse, waiting for unconsciousness to claim her once more. But it was possibly the worst thing she could have done as the sound of her own breathing filled her head and she was instantly back in the box. Sweating, she sat up and turned on the light, hugging her knees to her shoulders as she sucked in cool air.

Joan's silent appearance at the bedroom door scared the living shit out of her. “Couldn’t sleep,” she explained hoarsely as Brenda caught her breath, the question barely formed on her lips.

“Do you want a drink or something?” Joan shook her head just as her stomach growled and Brenda raised an eyebrow. “You sure? There’s still some pizza in the kitchen…”

Joan pulled a face, the thought of food making her feel nauseous. “I didn’t think you’d still be awake,” she said. Her voice was raspy and thick – understandable given the necking she’d had, thought Brenda and she swallowed hard in sympathy. While Joan had slept, she’d gone out into the garden to clear her head and had come to the decision that getting maudlin and mollycoddling Joan wasn’t going to help – and she doubted she’d thank her for it either – so, even though she didn’t really feel like it, Brenda sucked it up and hid her worry.

“Been working Lates and Nights for the last six months – not like I’ve really got any choice in the matter. You know how it is.” Her heart ached as she looked at Joan standing there like a broken doll, and she longed for everything to be back to how it was – minus the prisoner part of course. “Well, don’t just stand there like a spare part, come and sit down,” she said, patting the seat beside her. “There’s books on those shelves if you want, or you can pick a film?” Joan remained in the doorway, her eyes sliding between the chair and the empty sofa seat as her need for isolation fought her need for connection. Unable to make the decision Brenda made it for her, getting up and taking her by the elbow and steering her to the empty side of the couch. “God, you’re freezing, woman!” she exclaimed as their fingers brushed. “Come on, get yourself under this blanket.”

“Did you get any sleep?” she asked as she returned from the kitchen with two mugs of Milo. “Here, grab hold,” she ordered, pushing the drink into Joan's hands.

She shuddered as the sudden warmth raised goosebumps across her body, and held the mug over her heart as she stared down into its gently swirling contents. “A bit, I think. Not much”

“Strange bed?”

Joan gave a subtle shrug. “Strange day…” she replied and pressed her lips together. 

“I won’t argue with that.” Joan looked over to her, the barest of smiles playing at the corners of her mouth, and Brenda pushed down the urge to give her a massive hug. “How’s your neck?” she asked instead. It really did look grim. Like a huge birthmark beneath her chin, dark where the rope had bitten, livid and ugly around the edges.

Joan swallowed. “Uncomfortable.”

“Yeah, well you make sure you put some more cream on it before you go back to bed. I want you better.”

She did feel better though, not much – although that was probably down to lack of food and sleep – but enough to have lost a degree of that numbness she’d drawn around herself like a cloak. But what feelings she did have available to her were either too big or too raw for her to want to deal with right now.

They sat in silence just as before, but at least now Joan was sitting next to her – an improvement on earlier even if Joan had rigidly maintained a set distance between them. She’d managed to get Joan to take some painkillers and had gently bullied her into accepting a little soup, but getting a conversation out of her was still impossible, and her frustration at not being able to help her more burned at her guts.

It wasn’t until the massive yawn ambushed her that Brenda realised how tired she was, and she turned off the TV, staring up at the high ceiling with a long sigh. She’d been so keyed up that she hadn’t had chance to notice just how rooted she felt, but now, with Joan drowsing beside her and the silence of 4am wrapping them like a cashmere shawl, exhaustion rushed in to lay claim to her and she stood and stretched, wincing at the stiffness in her strained muscles.

She gave Joan a little shake. “You ready to go back to bed? ‘Cos I’ve got to get some shuteye, I’m in at two.”

Joan blinked sleepily up at Brenda. “You going in tomorrow?” she mumbled.

“Got to, haven’t I? Rent doesn’t pay itself.” Sudden worry made Joan's eyes gleam brightly, and Brenda squatted beside her with a cracking of her knees. Her palm found Joan's forearm, and she squeezed. “What’s the matter – thought you’d like the time alone to get your bearings? Look, it’s just tomorrow, and then I’ve got three days off.” Her eyes held Joan's and she smiled. “Come on, you’ll be fine!” she reassured and got to her feet, taking Joan's hand with her as she rose and tugging at it. “Now, bed…”

She watched from the doorway as Brenda grabbed some pillows and a quilt from cupboard and began rummaging in a drawer for linen. “Where are you going to sleep?” asked Joan.

“That chair pulls out.”

“You don’t have to, you know.”

Brenda turned and gave her a considered look. “Yeah, but you still look like you need a bit of time to yourself…” From the tilt of her head and frank expression Joan could see that Brenda was doing what she thought was the right thing, but from the way she hugged the bedding to her she knew that Brenda didn’t want to leave her alone. Joan bit at her lip and inhaled sharply as a pang of sadness spread like acid through her veins. She hated seeing Brenda like this because of her own cowardice. “I, I… I thought I did. But… I don’t.” It was as if with that rush of words she’d pulled out the pin that was keeping her upright, and Brenda hurried to catch her as she swayed. And, in that sudden moment of solid contact, tears came, spilling from behind her lids like boulders and she whispered the words: “Stay with me?” Brenda's eyes had their own damp sparkle as a gentle smile of happiness appeared and she nodded.

When Brenda returned from the bathroom Joan was intrigued to see that her nightwear consisted of knickers and an old band t-shirt that was barely long enough to cover the cushiony swell of her lower belly, and she pulled the quilt up to her nose as Brenda climbed into bed beside her and leaned against the headboard. She did nothing more than sit and stroke her hair as Joan lay against her side, but it was enough for Joan's body to start responding against her wishes. Pulling her hands from beneath the quilt, she clasped them loosely over her stomach and tried to focus on Brenda’s simple nurturing instead of the prickling sensation that crawled unchecked across her skin.

“Thank you,” she said simply.

Raven strands fell to the pillow as Brenda's fingers paused for a second. “Shhhh, you don’t have to thank me, Joan.”

She rolled onto her side and the intensity in her eyes as she stared up at Brenda made them glitter like jet. “You saved my life, Brenda. I owe you everything.”

“Shhh,” she whispered and began to stroke Joan’s hair again, “I did what anybody would do.”

Joan's fingers smoothed at the quilt as she struggled to voice what she knew to be true. “Not… not anybody,” she said hollowly. “No-one else would have thought me worthy of saving…”

The sudden spurt of rage towards the bastards that had brought Joan down to this level burned like phosphorous, and it took Brenda a moment or two to get herself under control. “Don’t talk like that, Joan. Maybe not those fuckers in there, but some of us are human.”

The brush of Brenda's fingers against her cheek set something loose in Joan and she dragged herself into a sitting position and, before she knew it, she was kissing Brenda hard on the lips, pulling back the quilt and straddling her lap as her arms found their way around her neck. There was a forlorn desperation in her voice as she whimpered, “I need you,” into the wild tangle of smoke-scented curls.

Taking Brenda’s hand, Joan silently slid it to her hip, then beneath the waistband of her pyjamas to the curve of her belly, and down over the gloss of her mons.

It was a fuck of necessity, of sheer human need, dry and uncomfortable and awkward, and tears leaked from Joan's eyes as, crushing her face into Brenda's neck, she finally let out an endless, silent scream and clung to her as she came with a sob of relief, her rough gasps becoming hiccoughing sniffles as she slipped sideways and curled herself into a ball.

There was the briefest moment of tension as Brenda moulded herself around Joan, but she pulled her arm tighter around her ribs and Brenda's eyes stung with relief as she felt her relax into her, accepting security of her embrace, and it wasn’t long before her whole body sagged and she was free of the day. Despite her exhaustion, sleep was harder to find for Brenda and she lay there, breathing in Joan's scent as her mind refused to let go of tonight but eventually, she too succumbed and fell asleep with her forehead pressed between Joan's shoulders.

**~Epilogue~**

Joan closed her eyes. When she opened them again, she was surrounded by the golden glow of her fencing studio. She breathed the amber light in as she ran through her warm-up, feeling it settle into her bones as she selected her blade and secured her tunic. She would probably never know who buried her. She knew Stewart was involved but there was little she could do to him to make him more miserable than he already was. It was Vera who needed proper punishment, who deserved to be shown the error of her ways; without Vera's interference she would have been free – maybe not as Governor but free nonetheless... A small figure appeared at the end of the studio and Joan smiled grimly behind her mask as they saluted and took up position.

Vera had started this war, she’d been the one without honour, putting the boot in, imposing arbitrary sanctions – well, the Mouse had better watch she didn’t get her tail snapped in a trap. Her opponent was hardly a match for her skill and fell under her advance, but Joan wasn’t fooled and parried the unsporting low blow, the tip of her blade coming to rest over a thundering heart as she stared down into wide blue eyes.

If she could envisage Vera's future then she could think about her own too, and she advanced down the pale wooden strip, carving the air with her épée as she conjured the plan grown during those long days in Wentworth.

When she woke, Joan wasn’t there. The sheets were cool, the flat quiet except for the annoying beep of her alarm clock. It didn’t take long to find her though. All the furniture had been moved to the side of the long lounge room and Joan was in her pyjamas, muttering to herself as she scooted up and down the empty strip of carpet, attacking an invisible opponent with a long, thin stick she’d got from god knows where. “Who’s winning?” she asked.

The amber light fled and Joan pulled up sharply, brushing a strand of hair from her glowing face as she whirled around and found herself back in Brenda's flat. “What’cha doing?”

“Ah, er, fencing moves.” She cleared her throat, trying to shift some of the hoarseness. “It’s something I do when I want to think,” she explained and leaned the stick against the wall with a sheepish smile.

“Didn’t know you fenced.” And even as she said it, she remembered the mask and sword on Joan's sideboard.

“No, not for a long time now, but I still find the discipline useful.”

Brenda's lips pursed and she stared thoughtfully at Joan. “Is that what you were doing in Isolation, then? We reckoned you were arguing with yourself.”

“Like the mad woman I was?”

There was a flash of the old Joan in her raised eyebrow, and Brenda wasn’t quite sure if she was being teased or not, either way she shrugged to hide her embarrassment. “Well, y’know what they say… If it looks like a duck—"

“Ha!”

All the furniture was back in place and Joan was cross-legged on the sofa, staring out into the garden when Brenda returned from the kitchen with their coffee. Opening the large window, she lit a cigarette and paused for a moment as the delicious poison settled her cravings. “So, how you going today?” she asked and straddled the low sill, leaning back and stretching out her legs along the chipped gloss work to catch the late morning sun.

Breath caught in Joan’s swollen throat. She couldn’t get over how pleasing Brenda looked sitting there with her bare legs and faded t-shirt, her tangled hair bouncing in the light breeze – and it was this simplicity that made her all the more beautiful. She smiled and inhaled sharply as a burst of liquid softness smoothed the sharp edges from her mind. “Better,” she replied at length. “Considerably better.”

“Good, I’m glad.” Even though her face was in shadow, Joan could see the relief that shone in Brenda’s tawny green eyes for a second or two before she broke into a happy grin. “Had any thoughts about what you’re going to do yet?”

“Why, scared you’ll get caught harbouring?” enquired Joan drolly.

“Come off it! Nah, Vera won’t send the cops round here – too scared of what I might tell them. But you’re not telling me that in all the time you’ve been locked up you never got round to planning what you’d do if you escaped?” She tilted her head and pulled a knowing face, and Joan wet her lips as a lopsided smirk twisted her wide mouth.

“I know exactly what I’m going to do,” she replied in a richly assured tone.

“Yeah?” Brenda swung her legs off the sill and sat forward, elbows on knees. “Feel like sharing?” 

Joan regarded her silently for a moment then cleared her throat. “Depends how much you want to become an accessory to further crimes.” 


End file.
